Fingers
by theatrhythms
Summary: I can just imagine the way those fingers worked at his guitar, remember the envy I felt. I wanted to hear what he heard, too. AU, Slight Dean x Sam.


**Title: **Fingers

**Author: **X Academy

**Series:** Supernatural

**Summary: **I can just imagine the way those fingers worked at his guitar, remember the envy I felt. I wanted to hear what he heard, too.

**Warnings/Rating:** T. A little language, some angst. AU

**Pairings:** None. Wincest if you want to see it that way.

**Characters:**

Dean Winchester – 19  
Sam Winchester – 15

**New Characters: **

**Author Notes: **I was inspired by the absolutely amazing movie _August Rush_, and I just had the image of Dean playing the guitar in my head, and Sam was somehow the cause of it. So here.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Supernatural or any of their characters. I just do this for fun. I need a life.

* * *

When I open my eyes, I'm greeted with almost pitch darkness. The moon is the sole light in the room, painting a streak of illumination across Sam's floor. I'm lying on the carpeted floor beside his empty, silent bed, my ear to the ground. I listen for the sound of his breathing, wait for the brush of his fingertips against the side of my head, but they never come. Unsurprisingly.

Slowly, I drag myself up into a sitting position, leaning against the side of Sammy's bed. My eyes feel gummy, dry from the useless tears I shed earlier. Scrubbing the back of my hand against them, I glimpse a light mass in the corner of the floor.

It's his beloved guitar.

I can't believe that he left the instrument here; he cherishes the thing. Sammy loves his baby more than he loves me, I'm certain.

And as I think this, I'm suddenly filled with the earlier rage I'd felt, filled with painful and biting emotion. I want to smash the fucking guitar, smash it to a million pieces. Maybe then Sam would feel the pain I felt when I'd discovered myself alone in the house.

I can just imagine the way those fingers worked at his guitar, remember the envy I felt. I wanted to hear what he heard, too.

I crawl across the room until I reach the guitar, and I pull the instrument out into the moonlight where I can see it. I want to see the splinters of wood and broken guitar strings splayed across the floor.

Reaching out to set my hands to the instrument, I'm ready to slam my palms into the guitar, dent it deep and hard. But, as soon as my fingers are in contact with the wood, I stop. I'm gazing at the instrument, transfixed, and suddenly, I'm looking at the guitar through different eyes. Sam's eyes.

My fingers travel to the strings of the guitar, hesitant and curious. Experimentally, I pluck at one string, and I can feel the deep, resonating sound it makes throughout my body and all around, like it's the only thing that's ever existed.

That one sound gives me the confidence to play another, then another. Strumming my fingers against the strings, plucking at them, slapping my palms against them, my anger and emotion is suddenly everywhere. I can hear the music I'm making as well as feel it in my bones, and it's beautiful, and I love it and hate it all the same.

My fingers are frantic, insistent against the strings now, and by now his guitar is in my lap and I'm playing it. I'm fucking owning it.

Suddenly, I hear the door slamming open, and my fingers instantly freeze. My head snaps up, and our eyes meet. His expression is one of shock; mine of fervor.

"Dean," Sam gasps, standing directly in the moonlight. His cheeks are smudged with dirt and flushed red, his clothes ragged and worn. I see a scrape on his elbow, bleeding and inflamed, and I want to lick it clean, bandage it and fix him up.

"I didn't think you'd come back this time," I mumble, glancing down at the guitar in my lap. My fingers are perched uncertainly over the strings of his guitar, and I will them to relax.

"You've never played a note in your freakin' life," Sam says accusingly, shuffling into the room and falling down on his knees next to me. "How come you can play so well?" There's an upset tinge to his voice, but he also seems genuinely curious.

"How do _you_ play so well?" I ask instead of answering his question, lifting my head to stare into his eyes, which are clear and confused and angry all at once.

"I learned!" he answers defensively, "I learned how to play for months, and you can just suddenly play the freakin' guitar like a freakin' musical genius on your first try. Why?"

All I can do is shrug, still staring at him. He stares back, and it seems like an eternity of conversation has passed between us in only a few seconds.

Sam reaches for the guitar, and I press my palms flat against it, holding it back. Sammy glares at me.

"Give it to me, Dean," he barks at me, "It's mine."

I glare at him, shaking my head. "No," I simply say.

Then there's silence again, and we stare at each other, speaking but not, communicating but not. After a while, my hand shoots out to take his elbow in it. Sam's surprised for a moment, but relaxes when I run my hand over his injury, only wincing a bit. I bring my hand up to rasp my tongue over my fingers and press them to his cut. Sam moves, his arm still grasped in my hand, until he's sitting next to me, pressed hard against my side. I press back, burying my head in the crook of his neck, and he sighs and holds onto me.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his fingers digging into my shoulder and his hot breath against my temple. "I won't leave again, promise."

I know it's a promise that's going to be broken, but it's a promise, and I need it. I lean my head up to press my cheek against his, blowing a resigned breath that ruffles his hair. I just nod a little, and that's all he needs to understand, and then I pull away from him, slumping against his side.

Silently, I nudge the guitar so that it's lying in his lap too, and I set my fingers to the strings. I pluck at them a bit, waiting for him to follow me.

Sam pauses for a moment before his fingers find the strings as well. He presses the pads of his digits to the strings on the neck rhythmically, moving his hand up and down, as I strum the strings on the body. We're both making music, and I don't know how or why, but it feels like Heaven.

* * *

**Well, that's that. What do you think of it?**

**I know I didn't blatantly state it, but Dean is kind of a prodigy here. XD That's such a hilarious thought to think about in words (to me at least), but in my head it makes sense to me for Dean to be a genius at playing a guitar suddenly. And again, this was inspired by **_**August Rush**_**.**

**Also, let's assume that Sam and Dean live together in a financially poor situation, and that Sam has run away from Dean multiple times for multiple reasons. And he always comes back. :) That was the scenario in my head.**

**Reviews are appreciated.**

**- X Academy**


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